Page 78 of Heist in Paradise

Her mouth parted in shock, eyes still too distant, too unfamiliar. It was like seeing each other across a vast landscape, hopeful yet uncertain, and too far away. I worried that if I blinked wrong, she’d disappear.

Was I hallucinating?

Had I finally cracked?

My hands twitched at my sides, desperate to reach out and touch her. To feel her realness. Her living warmth. Except she didn’t look warm. She was shivering, the gun clinking in her hands. Despite it, she looked steady, feet braced, shoulders tight, like she’d trained herself to overcome her fear.

She looked like a soldier. War-weary, refugee-eyed, and terribly resigned.

Then she frowned, her brows pinching in foggy confusion, and the landscape between us widened, tearing us further apart. She shook her head once, not in acknowledgment but a sharp, firm denial.

“Move,” she said curtly. Her voice was ragged now, like she hadn’t spoken in a long time. There was no sign of remorse on her gaunt face.

I didn’t move.

“Molly,” I said her name like a prayer, a plea. Memories flooded my brain like a broken dam—Molly chasing me when I stole her hairbrush, Molly teaching me how to use an eyelash clamp without flinching, Molly forcing me to drink green tea when I was sick, even though the taste made me feel sicker. Molly, Molly, Molly.

She’d always been a nurturer, a born helicopter parent, even as a kid.

That same neurotic know-it-all lifted her gun and pointed it directly at my face. I stared back at her in shock.

“I said move.”

I couldn’t feel my legs, but they moved on command, away from the wall and toward the bed. All the while, Molly tracked me, gun trembling but deadly. Her fingers looked like pure bone where they gripped the trigger.

“Mol—”

“Shut up.”

This couldn’t be happening.

I was dreaming. Or maybe I was dead.

Maybe I’d fallen out of the tree and onto my head, and as punishment, I was trapped in a coma-deep nightmare.

At the same time, my heart was bursting with such profound joy that I could hardly stand it. I found her.

Molly was alive.

All this time.

“You’re not here,” Molly said, and motioned the gun downwards in a clear sit order. The bed was hard and spring-sharp beneath me. My hands curled on the mattress, gripping it for dear life.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Who—it’s me! Olivia.”

Her jaw flexed, so sharp, so hollow. Uncertainty flickered over her haunted face. “No,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“No.” Firmer now, resolved, she curled her finger around the trigger. I slammed my eyes shut.

I’m dreaming.

When she shoots me, I’ll wake up.

No shot came. Carefully, I cracked open one eye. Molly hadn’t moved. A small, confused frown marred her face. It was the tiniest opening, the barest of hope.